


Loyalty is Eternal

by Scion_of_Olympia



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Adeptus Astartes - Freeform, Home Brew Chapter, Original Chapter, Original Character(s), Space Marines, lore bending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scion_of_Olympia/pseuds/Scion_of_Olympia
Summary: A trio of chapters of an unknown founding defend their charges from the threats of a cruel, uncaring galaxy. But as the needs of their charges grow, so do the threats to them increase exponentially. In order to defend those under their care, they must defy the will of Terra, take actions deemed heretical for the good of those loyal to the Throne. Loyalties are called into question, and the galaxy grows ever more dangerous. In the grim dark of the 41st millennium, there is only war.
Kudos: 1





	1. Beginning of an Empire

**Author's Note:**

> Strategos - Chapter Master  
> Kentarch - Captain  
> Straoutatoi - Battle Brother

“Strategos, we are ready for insertion.”

  
Strategos Hieron switched vox frequencies.

  
“Brother Kentarch Tyrannus, await my signal. Once it is given, you will be inserted behind the horde. Once there, seek out targets of opportunity and leave them leaderless. The rest of the companies will mop up whatever rabble is left."

  
"By our efforts," the Kentarch began.

  
"May His subjects prosper," The Strategos finished, cutting the connection, turning to the hololith table projecting his chosen battleground.

  
The hive city of Getupet, the planetary capital of Nestutunis Prime, an agri world, in the Haxan sector of Segmentum Tempestus, was under siege by the Greenskin menace, a minor WAAAGH! that had grown to apocalyptic levels due to underestimation of size, strength, and speed that had destroyed multiple Imperial Navy battle groups and Astra Militarum regiments sent to crush it. It had now assailed this sector of space, under the protection of the Iron Kings, and by the Emperor’s will, they will not live to see the morrow. 

  
The valley leading towards the hive city was marked with trap after trap: spiked ditches, minefields, hundreds of meters of razor wire and false trenches, palisades topped with razor wire, all were waiting for the tides of green, screaming xenos. A kilometer of trenches reaching the hive city walls was the last line of defense: autocannons, heavy bolter teams, six Leman Russ tanks in hull down positions, all manned by the PDF and whatever remnants of Imperial Guard remained after the failed attempts to crush the greenskins, an amalgamation of five regiments of varying origins; all united under the cause of survival. 

  
Over one hundred thousand guardsmen and PDF soldiers grimly awaited their fate, the hope of victory had all but left their mind, attempt after attempt to defeat the xenos tide foiled by sheer weight of numbers had reduced their morale to pitiful levels, and now they desired to bleed the alien as much as possible before the inevitable came to pass. Then, the entirety of the Iron Kings chapter made planetfall. The efforts of the Emperor’s Angels of Death had turned the tide, culling smaller warbands that broke off from the main body with extreme prejudice and efficiency, slowly whittling their numbers into more manageable portions, but only just, for the enemy was vast in number and capability, and had to be treated with all the caution and merciless tactical efficiency warranted by the Arch Enemy.

  
As Strategos Hieron watched on, the hololith displayed a red mass upon the map, slowly inching its way towards the hive city, reaching the entrance of the valley. Nearby, two blue dots started to move, as he had planned, in patterns reminiscent of ancient horse archers of old Terra, drawing the horde ever onward towards the killing fields at the hive city’s fore while killing those within reach. These were the 6th and 8th reserve companies, equipped with war bikes, acting as bait to lure the horde into the Strategos’ trap, tempting targets too valuable, and too easy, to not give chase. The blue dots soon broke for the city’s walls, weaving throughout the near literal field of death with ease, passing by trap after trap, following a path unseen by all except for the astartes, for it had been designed this way. The horde of xenos, buoyed by the promise of battle and easy kills, chased after them, charging headlong into the valley, triggering trap after trap, sections of their horde disappearing into red mist, far flung body parts and viscera, yet the mass of greenskins pressed onwards, undaunted by the deaths of their comrades. If anything, it only seemed to heighten their bloodlust and fury, their single minded goal only made more valuable as the violence increased. 

  
Over half the horde had entered the valley, with the majority charging headlong into the traps, chasing after the reserve companies. A smaller section lingered at the entrance, seemingly hesitant to commit themselves. This bothered the Strategos, who had expected such simplistic xenos to fling themselves into battle with abandon, as their previous engagements had shown, and yet this particular group hung back, as if observing, waiting for something. He turned back towards the main group, noting with some trepidation that it passed the halfway point, and now those in the trenches could engage. Heavy bolters, autocannons, the armaments of the six Leman Russ tanks and the two reserve companies of astartes unleashed their firepower into the mass of xenos, rank after rank of ork being mowed down by the concentrated volleys of munitions, but the aliens continued their charge, undaunted, unflinching as their kin died around them in the hundreds. 

  
It would be time to deploy the battle companies and the remainder of the reserve companies, hidden on either side of the valley, just waiting for the order to attack. But it didn’t sit right with him that the entirety of the horde didn’t commit, with the small section still lingering at the valley entrance. He glanced at the ever encroaching horde, knowing that mere PDF and guardsmen couldn’t face the orks in hand to hand, and that there were too few astartes in the trenches to blunt the xeno charge, so decided, against his instincts, to give the order.

  
“Brother Kentarch Tyrannus, begin insertion.”

  
“By your will, Strategos!”

  
At the rear of the xenos horde, a single dot appeared on the map. This was the First Company, one hundred of the most elite astartes the Iron Kings Chapter could muster, all equipped with terminator plate and a mixture of lightning claws, combi-bolters, power swords and assault cannons. Those lesser xenos who noticed the hulking astartes at their rear only had a second to process their appearance before they were slaughtered, the terminators ripping into the rear of the xenos horde with skill and focused fury. Those with lightning claws and power swords tore through the xenos ranks, carving their way into the hulking mass of aliens, seeking enemy champions to topple, reaping a heavy toll, tearing those who stood in their way into ribbons. The terminators with assault cannons and combi-bolters let loose a massive fusilade into the enemy ranks, hundreds of xenos reduced to a bloody pulp and sprays of blood in seconds, making sure to avoid their melee oriented comrades. Strategos Hieron ordered the rest of the companies to engage, six more blue dots appeared, three on each side of the valley, and attacked the horde, laying into them with cold, calculated efficiency, their pin-point accurate fire reducing the once mighty horde to mangled corpses and pools of xeno blood.

  
The xeno horde, being attacked on all sides, tried to address each new threat all at once. Sections of the horde charged the astartes on their flanks, hoping to close the gap and rip them to shreds in melee combat, but each charge was torn to pieces under the near unending volleys of highly accurate bolter fire, forcing the remaining xenos back into the roiling mass of impotent rage. The nobs who tried to establish a pecking order and actually attack the Iron Kings were slaughtered where they stood by the terminators, who were slowly making their way to the center of the horde, their focus solely on the massive xeno, bedecked in thick scrap metal plates colored in a menagerie of muted colors, that was their Warboss, who was barking orders and smacking his nobs, screaming at them to actually do something instead of stand around and die.

  
Death came for the orks from all sides, and yet they did not despair. Battlecries of pure, unadulterated joy, fury, and bloodlust echoed throughout the valley despite the field of battle being littered with the corpses of their comrades. The terminators crushed the bodies of the fallen xenos underfoot with each step, the ground long since been buried under the green tide, some tearing apart the xenos with their bare hands. The carnage was immense, every single terminator had blood and viscera coating their armor, the ground long since turned dark with blood soaking the soil. Strategos Hieron could only imagine what the PDF and guardsmen were seeing. He imagined that some would hold onto this memory for the rest of their lives. He returned his attention to the First Company, noting that the company was nearing the center, where the warboss most likely was, and eagerly awaited the results.

  
Kentarch Tyrannus only had eyes for the Warboss, a massive xeno, bulging muscle and thick scrap metal plating covering his frame. Its face was one of scars and fangs, its eyes holding nothing but rage and fury as they darted from nob to nob, trying in vain to get the horde back under control from the berserk state they’ve fallen into. It was intelligent, Tyrannus noted. It understood the need for cohesion, or at the very least it understood that it could kill things better and faster if they worked together beyond a simple massed charge. It also understood the dire situation that it, and the rest of its kin, were in. If they didn’t respond as a whole, instead of individuals, they would die, and Tyrannus would ensure this fate. As he moved closer and closer to the hulking xeno, his bodyguard keeping pace, slaughtering xeno after xeno that tried to slay him, he voxed the rest of the company, telling them to form up on him. They were taking down the Warboss.

  
The entirety of the First Company formed around their captain, and at his command, began to march towards their target, a rolling tide of ceramite and plasteel that crushed all who stood in its way with blade and bolter. The Warboss, as if sensing its own demise in the form of trans-human warriors, turned toward the formation of astartes and roared a challenge, hefting a massive, crudely constructed war axe in each hand, beckoning them to try and engage in melee combat. Tyrannus wasn’t so foolhardy and prideful as to accept the challenge, especially from a xeno no less, and he ordered for those terminators with ranged weaponry to move to the fore. Both combi-bolters and assault cannons soon spat forth a wall of bolt rounds, streaking towards the foe with deadly intent and accuracy. Xeno flesh not covered by metal plates was ruptured, torn asunder by the destructive force the First Company wielded, and even the metal plates suffered under the withering hail of fire, small sections of metal torn away with each bolt round that landed, tearing away entire plates, leaving the flesh underneath easy pickings for the astartes.

  
The Warboss, not one to die in such a manner, charged the First Company, its massive bulk moving at speeds that shouldn’t be possible for such a massive creature, sections of its frame blown away by fusillades of fire, but it couldn’t be stopped. With the xeno forcing him to act, Tyrannus ordered the rest of the company to back away, and began to counter charge. A horizontal swing made him lean back, the blade scratching the ceramite of his plastron, and he retaliated, lightning claws flashing, slashing at the exposed flesh of the xenos’ arm, thick muscle parting to the blades as if it was a mere human, and not a massive alien beast made for slaughter.

  
He moved back, avoiding yet another strike, for he knew that while his armor was powerful and strong, the size and strength of this Warboss would overpower it if any of its blows made contact in a meaningful way, and would tear through the plating as if it were merely parchment. He and the Warboss circled each other, looking for any signs of weakness, openings to exploit to the fullest that they could be. As they circled each other, Tyrannus noted with a disconcerting degree of frustration that the ork offered none, its stance fully covering whatever weaknesses it may have had, while enhancing its strengths. While he was skilled, he wasn’t the Strategos, who could slay warbosses as easily as simply breathing, and needed a distraction, something to draw its attention away from him for just a moment in order to make the kill. A string of bolt rounds slammed into the side of the Warboss, chunks of flesh and sprays of blood coating the floor of corpses beneath them, which drew its attention to a squad of terminators with assault cannons. It was the distraction that he needed and he rushed forward, as fast as his suit would allow him, and slashed at its exposed skin, cutting through ligaments and arteries that sprayed its foul blood onto his armor. He slashed at the beast’s legs, leaving deep gashes on its left, and outright mangling its right, forcing it to kneel, leaving its throat vulnerable.

  
As he reared back to finish the xeno off, he was suddenly grabbed and slammed into the ground, his armor mashing ork corpses into a green, bloody paste. The massive hand of the ork held him down, preventing him from rising, as its sheer strength outweighed his own, even assisted by his armor’s systems. The Warboss, hefting his crude war axe in the other hand, reared back, intent on burying the axe head into the astartes’ chest. The First Captain slashed at the hand holding him down with his lightning claws, deep rents and gouges colored the ork’s flesh, but it wasn’t enough. For the first time in his long history of service, Kentarch Tyrannus thought that he was going to die.

  
Before the death blow could fall, the ork jerked, as if being struck, and let out a pained roar, quickly turning his attention to two terminators armed with lightning claws and power swords, their blades coated with the xeno’s blood. The Warboss hunched over, using its free hand to feel where they had struck, its hand coming back coated in its own blood. The sight of its own blood, being struck from the rear, and being interrupted during its duel, enraged the xeno. It made to charge the terminators, but noted its mangled leg, which only enraged it further. The terminators made sure to stay out of range, knowing that they did their part, and turned their attention back to the xeno horde, laying into them with ferocity and skill. With all other targets of his ire out of range, and having no way to reach them without being turned to a twitching mass of pulped meat and blood, the Warboss turned his attention back to his former quarry, only to feel the razor sharp lightning claws of the Kentarch of the First Company tear into his throat, his lifeblood spilling onto the ground in torrents. It made to roar a final challenge, but all that came out was a wet gurgle, spraying yet even more blood onto Tyrannus’ armor, who stood there with contempt.

  
“Draw your last breath, xeno, for your campaign of slaughter ends here,” said Tyrannus, before lobbing off the massive head of the Warboss.

  
As he picked up the head with some revulsion, he noted that the horde was thinning out to some degree, but still held considerable numbers. He scoffed, knowing that once he displayed the head of the warboss, whatever counted as their leadership would immediately jockey for the position of warboss, damning them to inglorious deaths. He climbed onto the corpse of the warboss, the closest thing to a raised platform on the flat ground of the valley’s center, and displayed the severed head of the warboss. The effect, as he had known from the moment he killed the massive xeno, was near instant. Nobs, who moments before worked together to fight the astartes, immediately turned on one another, bashing in their comrade’s head in a bid to establish dominance to the rest of their kin, which only doomed them. The reduced number of nobs made the task of the terminators easier, and soon, the horde was leaderless, a writhing mass of bodies being cut down with ease.

  
Strategos Hieron noted with some satisfaction that the horde was beginning to thin, the combined efforts of the terminators and the rest of the chapter producing undeniable results. His orders were a combination of tactical decision, beheading the snake and watching the body wriggle and die was more strategically sound than fully engaging the chapter in melee combat, something that they were not specialists in, and test, a test for his First Company Kentarch, not that he would ever know, and so far, he had passed. He turned his attention to the entrance of the valley, noting with concern that the section of the horde that lingered there were simply gone.

  
“Kentarch Dorios, pursue the xenos that lingered at the entrance of the valley. Report their movements and disposition every three hours,” he voxed.

  
“Yes Strategos, your will be done!” the Kentarch of the Scout Company responded before cutting the connection.

  
Satisfied, the Strategos turned towards a figure who had watched the hololith with equal amounts of horror and hope, now dabbed at the lines of sweat trailing down his slightly pudgy face. He wore an outfit akin to those of noble blood. A dark green frock coat, fitted for a frame a size or two smaller than the figure wearing it, met his gaze, with a double breasted vest with a notched collar, matched with a pair of light brown trousers. A tall top hat, dark in color, slightly wobbled as the man dabbed at his face with a white handkerchief, an impressive mustache, immaculately maintained, rested on his face.

  
“Your planet is secure, Governor Meredeth. The Greenskin menace has been utterly crushed, and my forces are tracking whatever mewling remnants escaped the slaughter.”

  
The man, Governor Terry Meredeth, sighed with relief, putting away the handkerchief.

  
“I thank you, Lord, for your timely intervention. If you hadn’t, I shan't think of what horrors we would have undergone under the horrid xeno,” the man said, his voice one of highborn upbringing, the accent of posh society heavy upon his voice.

  
“I understand that the transfer is to occur soon after?” the Strategos asked, though he already knew the answer.

  
“Yes, Lord, your tribute, ten percent of our world’s output, will be transferred to your vessel shortly.”

  
He nodded and turned to the other figures in the room, his heavy Cataphractii terminator plate making his steps loud and powerful.

  
“How do your chapters fare?”

  
The first astartes, colored in a mixture of silver and gold, a Fleur de Lis with abutting lighting bolts upon his left pauldron, uncrossed his arms when addressed by the Strategos, and bowed before speaking.

  
“The Noble Crusaders are purging what remains of the WAAAGH! in the system. Our boarding action with our First Company upon their flagship was successful in killing the Warlord. Their fleets are in disarray, leaderless and fighting one another for dominance. Easy pickings for our boarding parties and warships, with minimal losses.”

  
The second astartes, colored grey and blue with crossed chain axes on their left pauldron, bowed.

  
“The Nova Rampagers are gaining a tally of kills unheard of in our chapter’s history. A glorious day. We’ve sustained some losses, but their deaths were honorable. Our defense of the outlying systems from the xenos filth, along with hunting down smaller warbands and fleeing remnants have blooded our new warriors thoroughly. Our Chapter Master is pleased with your plan.”

  
Hieron was pleased with this news. When the other two chapters of the sector conferred overall command to him, to say he was shocked would be an understatement, but he bore the responsibility with stoic resolve and pride, vowing to ensure total victory over the WAAAGH! that threatened their worlds and charges. He had the Noble Crusaders perform hit-and-run operations on the WAAAGH! as it entered the system, whittling down the fleet, forcing them into the waiting arms of the Nova Rampagers, who were eager to blood their weapons on xenos, having sworn an oath of vengeance upon the Greenskins for the destruction of their first chapter recruitment fief. The defense of key strategic worlds in the outer reaches of the system had forced the WAAAGH! on a collision course with Nestutunis Prime, right where the Iron Kings had wanted them. He despaired at the lackluster number of Astra Militarum regiments at his disposal, but made due with what he had, and his efforts had produced a victory to be remembered long after he was gone.

  
“With your permission, Chapter Master,” the envoy of the Noble Crusaders began. Frowning at the usage of the Codex rank instead of the rank given to him by his chapter behind his helm, Hieron nonetheless nodded his permission. “Our Chapter Master has asked me to relay to you his desire to restart the War Games. He has already selected a champion, and wishes to know if you have as well.”

  
The envoy from the Nova Rampagers looked towards the Iron King Strategos, his stance conveying excitement and curiosity, showing to Hieron that this had been thought of at length by the Nova Rampager’s Chapter Master as well. The War Games was an ancient tradition held by the three chapters, long before any of the current chapter masters assumed the role. It held its origins in 645 M.36, when the chapters chose to operate in this sector. It was an event to forge bonds of brotherhood among the chapters, to ensure cohesion and unity of purpose and action among the battle brothers and higher echelons of chapter command. It was also, unofficially, an event to prove a chapter’s mettle against their cousins of the other chapters. It was a point of pride to have an astartes of a specific chapter win the games. It proved you had the best warriors, and that your chapter was something to aspire to.

  
It fell out of favor when relations between the chapters began to deteriorate amidst a massive Greenskin invasion in 233 M.37. The entire 3rd Company of the Noble Crusaders was nearly slaughtered defending their recruitment fief, with the Iron Kings arriving too late to save the majority of the company, but just quick enough to draw the horde away, allowing thirty of the 3rd Company to escape with their lives. The existing leadership of the Noble Crusaders blamed the Iron Kings for such horrifying losses and accused them of not answering their call for aid fast enough, citing their loss of the previous War Games to a member of the 3rd company as the reason. The Iron Kings disputed this, citing that they were containing an offshoot of the horde, preventing it from razing fifteen imperial worlds and two forgeworlds of vital importance to the sector, which delayed them answering the call for aid. Neither side backed down from their claims, and soon an enmity began to brew, with both chapters going out of their way to slight the other in campaigns and purgation operations. The Nova Rampagers, not wanting to get involved with chapter politics, removed themselves from the two disputing chapters, isolating themselves to their fief, refusing all contact from either chapter, which proved to be the doom for their recruitment fief as a particularly powerful warlord slammed an attack moon into its surface, destroying the planet, along with the 8th and 9th companies of the Nova Rampagers, with neither chapter knowing of the Greenskin invasion nor of the planet’s destruction until Imperial Navy transmissions asking for aid had informed them. This tragedy had shaken the two embittered chapters out of their feud, and both offered aid to the wounded chapter, but both still eyed each other with wariness.

  
Now, in 991 M.40, relations have improved to such a degree that the past dispute seemed like an old memory, a thing of a bygone era left to the histories. New leadership, wanting to mend the broken bonds of ages past, began to cooperate with one another, leading to astounding victories over threats once considered to be insurmountable, now becoming mere blips on the radar. The sector of space became the safest it had been since the chapters first claimed their dominions, and the dominion of the Emperor grew as the three chapters reclaimed worlds long thought lost to xeno or arch enemy actions. It was a time of growth, peace, and victory, and Hieron would be remiss if he were to deny such a thing.

  
After all, it would only increase the bonds already forged by the three chapters, and foster healthy competition amongst them to produce the best warrior, leading to an overall increase in quality among the astartes of the chapters. The greatest champions in the chapter’s history were forged during the War Games. He found few reasons to not reinstate it, but the reasons he did find prevented him from going forward with the motion. There was the lingering thought that they would become lax in their duties, and that the old feuds would reignite, creating tension where there should be none, and leading to an overall downward trend in effectiveness. It was one of the few things preventing him from fully endorsing the reinstatement. He would need to speak to his fellow Chapter Masters in person to discuss such issues before he could give his approval, to see where they stood on the issue, besides the obvious approval they both shared.

  
“Relay to your lieges that I would wish to discuss this with them in person before I make a decision,” he began, noting the near imperceptible disappointment shared between the astartes. If only to ensure that the chapter masters came, he added, “But I do have a candidate in mind for a champion, and he is a mighty warrior indeed.”

  
The change was instant, as both astartes perked up in excitement, and rushed to relay the news to their commanders. Hieron inwardly smiled, and idly wondered how his envoys to the other chapters were faring, as they were different in demeanor and doctrine to the Iron Kings to a degree that you couldn’t confuse an Iron Kings astartes for a Nova Rampager or a Noble Crusader, even if they wore the same colors and heraldry. He had grown to accept the quirks and mannerisms of his cousins with all the grace and dignity of one in command. His fellow astartes, however, were loath to deviate from chapter doctrine and disliked the aloof disregard for their methods that their kin displayed, though they tempered such feelings when in the presence of their cousins.

  
Soon the lost section of the greenskin horde was found and excised with no loss to the chapter. The chapter returned to their vessels in orbit and made way for their chapter homeworld, the civilized world known as Ialantium in the Helosse sub-sector. It was a verdant world orbiting a bright yellow star, rich with flora and fauna, with sprawling cities dotting its surface, sparse in number but great in their expanse. The greatest structure was the chapter keep Knossidaea, a veritable fortress, with battlements and defenses of such quality and effectiveness that only a few chapters could equal or surpass them. The chapter’s flagship, the battle barge Iron Vigil, hung in low orbit, manned by chapter serfs trained in handling such a vessel, surrounded by the rest of the Iron Kings fleet containing the chapter in its entirety. It disgorged a flurry of thunderhawks, carrying the entirety of the astartes that dwelled on the battle barge planet side, the rest of the chapter followed suit. The thunderhawks landed upon a series of fortified landing pads, dozens of anti-aircraft guns guarded the airspace above and around the keep, and a small group of chapter serfs that managed the keep in the absence of any astartes, along with a group of important individuals and officials, met the lead thunderhawk.

  
Strategos Hieron, along with a small bodyguard and the two envoys, exited the transport, his armor making him slightly duck as he exited the craft, followed by a squad of terminators, their charge towering over them. To the serfs and officials who awaited them, he was a giant, more so than an astartes already was, a obelisk of strength and charisma that seemed impossible to interact with, much less feel anything else other than fear, fealty and the dread that came with gazing upon such a creation of the Emperor. Yet they felt reassured, comforted by his presence, for he had personally saved their lives countless times over, and they owed him a debt that could never be repaid. Their service to him was merely fulfilling the obligation that saving their lives warranted, and he accepted their pledges and oaths of fealty with pride.

  
He advanced, stopping before the serfs, removing his helm to better connect with his charges, who bowed at his approach. He bid them to rise, and gestured for their reports.

  
The first, a middle aged man of average build and stature by the name of Clonius, gained his attention. He had saved this mortal from a rogue greenskin horde three years ago, and had become the leading figure among the group, taking the position of Planetary Governor in his lord’s stead while the Chapter was away on campaign. His administration was second only to the astartes he served, and the task of managing the day to day tasks of running an astartes homeworld was delegated to him if the Strategos wasn’t around, or if he had more important matters to attend to.

  
“My lord, Ialantium has prospered while you were away. The PDF has expanded from five regiments to thirteen, all fully equipped and ready for battle. The population has increased by five percent since your voyage, and overall productivity has skyrocketed. Your tithe of recruits has grown from two hundred to four hundred, all scions of proud, martial dynasties, and eagerly await the trials, if you should wish it, my lord. Two new colonies have been established on the eastern continents, and all report steady growth and fortuitous prospects, as all have discovered rich mineral deposits and vast, fertile fields and plains. I will update you on their progress, should you wish it. I look forward to their success,” the man reported, bowing as he finished.

  
The second to gain his attention was a woman, bearing a fair, unblemished complexion, wearing Cadian standard flak armor and uniform, with their fiery red hair tied into a functional bun under an officer’s pointed cap. Piercing green eyes stared at Hieron’s own deep ocean blues, trying in vain to meet his commanding gaze, before darting away to stare at his plastron in defeat. Commander Atalante always tried to meet his gaze in an unspoken contest, yet always conceded defeat. She managed, trained, and led the planet’s PDF regiments into battle if the world was to be assaulted by the enemies of the Imperium. She was new to the role, a mere guardswoman saved by the chapter master’s actions during a Dark Aeldari raid a decade ago, now promoted to the rank of Commander due to her breaking a siege of orks upon the planet’s manufacturing center and counter attacking the rear of the xeno host, leading to the enemy forces routing in short order, mopping up the remnants with quick, decisive action.

  
“My lord, the new PDF regiments all have been trained according to your standard, and as my colleague has stated, have increased their number to thirteen in total. New outposts have been set up to monitor the area around the new colonies, and the construction of proto-bastions and permanent PDF garrisons in the new colonies has begun, and a pool of new recruits from these colonies show great promise. End of report, my lord,” she ended, bowing as well.

  
The third official, an eccentric man dressed in finery, was named Poleimon, and his role was to oversee all void traffic coming to and from the world. He had been saved by the chapter when his vessel was boarded by rogue Imperial Navy elements. The boarding actions of the Iron Kings had saved the lives of his crew and himself. A trader was his vocation, and he operated a relatively small shipping company. Now, since he had pledged his service to the Strategos, his company had grown in size, and now operates fleets of vessels in his name, shipping cargo to and from planets within the sector. He himself no longer operates in the void, content to watch and scan the traffic of vessels, making sure everything checked out. Essentially, he was a customs official, but he insisted that since he now served an astartes chapter, his role was much more important. They, and the Strategos, indulged him, for his skill and efficiency allowed such.

  
“My lord, shipments from the local forgeworlds have arrived, delivering their cargo of munitions, weapons, and ten new suits of armor, along with replacement suits and shipments of flak armor, lasguns and Leman Russ tanks for the PDF. The tech adept in charge of the armor shipment has told me to inform you that the mark of armor you require is taxing on their resources, but they will continue to honor their vow. They remember those who protect their own,” he finished with a flourishing bow.

  
As expected, the Strategos thought. The three forgeworlds under his purview had sworn pacts to supply him and his fellow chapters after he had helped them repel numerous ork invasions and recidivist incursions that nearly tore the worlds in two, along with finding an STC pattern fragment of a model of lasgun that was slightly more power efficient than the standard model, earning him much favor with the forgemasters of each forgeworld. However, his requests had earned some ire from the local Magi. One of the three forgeworlds, Forgeworld Delphias, had in its ancient records the template for an earlier mark of power armor, one steeped in such rich history and created so long ago that it is a relic of extreme value to many astartes chapters. It was deemed impractical for modern astartes warfare, as the Mark 7 plate was more than sufficient to combat the threats of the current millennium, and was due to be completely removed from record, but the Strategos had asked for the older mark, and despite protests of refitting and retooling entire production lines just for this mark of armor, they relented, and he now, after 700 years of trial and error, received the first suits of this ancient model. He had to see it for himself.

  
After hearing the reports from the serfs in charge of the chapter keep, how the supplies were, any news worthy of reaching his ears, after all that was done and after he dismissed them, he moved towards the keep, eager to lay his eyes upon the relics fresh from the production lines. He almost laughed to himself at the oxymoron. He dismissed his honor guard, allowing them to return to their duties when not guarding their charge, and soon entered the armory, noting immediately the older suits of power armor, standing out from the modern suits of armor next to them. Rounded hoops of ceramite greeted him, contrasting the ceramite casings of the Mark 7 next to it, overlapping plates and studded pauldrons untouched by any heraldry or battle honors gleamed in the light of the armory. The mono-visor stared at him with a cold, unyielding gaze, the helm reminiscent of the armor of ancient warriors partaking in a holy crusade, so unlike the compact, snub nosed features of the Mark 7. Fitting for the Emperor’s Angels of Death, partaking in the unending crusade to conquer the galaxy in his name, to unite humanity under its rightful ruler and bring security, peace, and prosperity to all of his subjects.

  
“These are the older suits you requested, my Strategos?”

  
He turned to the voice, a small smile greeting his Kentarch. Tyrannus entered the armory, his Tartaros terminator plate not as unwieldy or slow as his Chapter Master’s, allowing him to move more akin to regular astartes battle plate, but only partially. The Kentarch of the First Company gazed upon the relic suits with a reverence unseen by the Strategos before, and he could hardly blame him. These suits of armor represented ideals long since forgotten and abandoned by the wider Imperium, and are to be cherished with expert care and attention, given to those worthy of bearing such ideals into battle.

  
“Yes, Brother Kentarch Tyrannus. They have just arrived. It is a glorious day, a victory bereft of loss and the acquisition of such hallowed relics. It warms my heart to see such artifice,” Hieron said.

  
“We shall be the envy of our fellow chapters once they lay eyes upon treasures such as these. I imagine that many will try to curry favor with you to obtain one,” the Kentarch remarks.

  
Hearing such words brings the War Games to the front of Hieron’s mind, and his remark about choosing a champion, and he turns his attention from the relic suits to his Kentarch.

  
“Brother Kentarch Tyrannus, what do you know of the War Games?”

  
The Kentarch turned from the suits to his Strategos, a confused look upon his face. He had heard of the War Games, learned about them while perusing the chapter’s history, seeking to learn from champions that had come before him. It was a practice that he longed to see in person, for so many of the chapter’s champions and legends had been born from the War Games. It intrigued him that such an event could produce astartes of that caliber, their deeds long remembered by the chapter’s chaplains and scribes, their victories holding lessons taught to all neophytes.

  
“I know they have produced some of our chapter’s greatest champions, who led our warriors to astounding victories over innumerable foes. I know that it was a hallowed tradition to those before us, but it fell out of favor some millennia ago. Why do you ask, my Strategos?”

  
A moment’s pause.

  
“I have been pondering whether to reinstate the War Games. Our cousins wish for this, but I am still uncertain.”

  
“What causes you to give pause, my liege?”

  
“It is the thought that the old hatreds, bitter rivalries and all that comes with such returning in force at a time where it is not needed. The sector in which we operate is experiencing a level of peace and prosperity not seen since our forebears arrived and began to operate in the area, and it is only due to our closeness with our cousins, our unity of purpose and action. I am troubled, for if my concerns come to light, the sector will return to a time of desperate acts of survival and our actions will take on a defensive, inward focusing light where His subjects would be forced to merely survive, rather than thrive due to enmities driving our chapters apart. I do not wish for this to happen, but if I were to go forward with the reinstatement, this may be a likely possibility.”

  
The Kentarch pondered the query, his trans-human mind going through every possible scenario and outcome in the time it takes a normal human to blink, and slightly frowned. It was a troubling thought, and it certainly warranted such careful consideration.

  
“My Strategos, it is wise to consider such things, for they are valid concerns and can become reality if allowed. However, the benefits of a closer bond with our brother chapters upon partaking in the War Games are too great of an opportunity to miss. It will allow our fellow chapters to see how well our doctrines are, and will allow our brothers to better understand our cousins, and appreciate them more so than they already do. It will bring glory to the Iron Kings, and allow those with the potential to become something more than a mere straoutatoi of the line. Many of our chapter’s greatest champions were forged in these games, and many more may yet come with its reinstatement,” the Kentarch finished.

  
With such a compelling argument, it was hard not to reinstate the War Games, but there was one thing he needed to see to before he made his decision. As he moved to commend his Kentarch for such wisdom, he received a hail on the vox from one of the line Kentarchs.

  
“My Strategos, the Nova Rampagers and the Noble Crusaders have arrived.”


	2. Motions of Heresy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kentarchia - Company  
> Dekarkia - Squad  
> Tagma - Chapter  
> Decarch - Sergeant  
> Kentarch - Captain  
> Strategos - Chapter Master

The Strategos watched the thunderhawks carrying his cousins glide through the atmosphere, touching down on the landing pads and disgorging its highly important cargo. The first figure to approach Hieron, with a small honor guard of three, was clad in Mark IV artificer power armor of simply superlative craftsmanship, colored silver and gold, with golden etchings and carvings of beatific splendor all across the armor, with a golden fleur-de-lis, coupled with abutting lighting bolts upon their left pauldron, a white cloak pinned to their shoulders flowing in their wake. It was a peerless work of art and a deadly tool of war in the same instance, and only one astartes was fit to wear such artifice. 

  
  


He was a giant among astartes, figuratively, especially among the Noble Crusaders, for his authority was without question, and his orders were heeded to the very letter. He was extremely skilled in warfare of all forms, but tended to favor combining the strength of his chapter with those mortal soldiers under their purview, leading them into battle with admirable efficiency, and expected a level of skill, competence, and intellect of all who fought alongside him, which earned the ire of mortal commanders and astartes captains alike outside the sphere of the Noble Crusaders. This, however, did nothing to stimmy the smile that grew on Hieron’s face as the astartes drew near.

  
  


"Hail, Holonnius. Ialantium is honored to receive you and your chapter," Hieron greeted, clasping the astartes' forearm in greeting.

  
  


"I thank you for receiving us, Hieron. From the tidings that my envoy relayed to me, you had little trouble with the foul xenos on Nestutunis Prime," the chapter master of the Noble Crusaders replied. 

  
  


Another figure appeared to Holonnius’ left, garbed in superbly crafted Mark VII power armor, the rank of First Company Captain apparent by the fine fur cloak and horizontally crested helm with a white horse hair plume unique to the Noble Crusaders, the etching and embellishments near equal to Holonnius’ own. Hieron knew this astartes well. They were named Teliolux, and he had fought with them on numerous occasions against the Greenskin menace and pirate fleets that had plagued the sector in the past. He was his chapter master’s closest advisor, and chosen successor should Holonnius fall in the line of duty. He was focused on perfection of all vocations, combat related and otherwise, akin to his chapter master, and was second only to Holonnius in skill and tactical acumen in the Noble Crusaders. Both astartes were beguiling to the eye, angelic beauty coloring their countenance, framed by snow white locks that reached their shoulders, on par with the splendor of the scions of the Angel, Sanguinius’ Blood Angels, and one would be forgiven for mistaking a Noble Crusader for a Blood Angel based upon countenance alone.

  
  


"It was almost insulting at how easily our forces were able to surround and annihilate them. Your envoy relayed similar, if not identical, tidings from your chapter. The warboss fell without much of a struggle?"

  
  


A snort of contempt from Holonnius and Teliolux was all that was required to explain. Before the two astartes could continue, another approached. This astartes was clad in revered Mark V power armor, the large bonding studs on the left pauldron glinting in the sunlight. The armor was an amalgamation of Mark III and VI, the battle plate was battered and scarred, pock marks and divots in the ceramite a testament to its age and extensive service, and yet it endured. These marks were worn with pride by the astartes who bore the armor, who held in their left hand a large chain axe.

  
  


The visage the astartes portrayed was one of brutality and zeal, and was the most proficient among the three chapter masters in melee combat, as his chapter’s specialty required that the astartes leading them be first among equals in the art of close quarters engagements. He reveled in melee combat, disdaining long range engagements in favor of zone mortalis operations and frontal assaults, regardless of the strength of the foe, for melee combat was the truest expression of the fury of the Emperor, and ensured that none of the reviled enemy escaped the wrath of the Imperium.

  
  


"My warriors wet their blades in xeno blood this day, and my new bloods have been tested against our hated foe! I have you to thank for that, Hieron," the astartes enthusiastically proclaimed, clasping Hieron’s forearm as he approached, followed by a single astartes. Hieron knew of this astartes as well, though not as well as Teliolux. He knew, at the very least, the marine’s name, Baltasar, a soft spoken second in command who was fierce and extremely deadly in close quarters combat.

  
  


"Duratan, exuberant as ever," Holonnius said.

  
  


“You only deride my enthusiasm due to you and your warriors lacking zeal in destroying the Emperor’s foes. Your peacocks could never match true warriors in combat,” Duratan claimed.

  
  


Hollonius looked affronted and began to respond, likely citing his chapter’s long and distinguished military record and numerous battle honors, but Hieron interrupted the brewing squabble.

  
  


“I think a landing pad is no place to discuss such matters. Please, join me in the Oratorium for further discussion.”

  
  


Slightly miffed at being cut off from explaining to the savage the error of his ways and how erroneous his claims were, Hollonius nevertheless followed after the towering form of Hieron, Duratan smirking in open satisfaction as he trailed behind. They passed through the entrance hall, the structure expertly wrought by the chapter’s predecessors, the architecture was of sterling quality, each and every stone, arch, and column was near perfect. Frescos and murals lined the walls as they moved further into the fortress, displaying past glories and figures of importance to the chapter. Busts of all previous chapter masters lined the halls, each was a finely crafted piece of art, cut from the purest marble, sculpted by the finest artisans of the chapter, encapsulating every detail of their faces, studs and all for all time. Engraved into a small golden plate upon the bust were the names, deeds, and service lengths of each chapter master, most numbering multiple centuries at the very least.

  
  


Hanging from the ceiling was the banner of the Iron Kings, a golden laurel wreath encompassing a silvery-gray crown, a thing of outstanding provenance.

  
  


Hieron looked up to the sigil as they passed, silently revering it. It was the chapter’s most hallowed relic, as it was wrought when the Iron Kings won their first victory, and has adorned the armor, warships, and as of M.35, fortress monastery of every Iron King ever since. It has been said, and circulated through the entirety of the chapter, that it was brought into being by the first Strategos of the Iron Kings, Pyrrhon, a legendary figure in the chapter whose deeds and leadership formed the basis for all future leaders of the chapter. He hoped to be his equal someday, before his service to the Emperor was finished.

  
  


They soon reached the Oratorium, and filed in, some removing helmets, others glancing at the works of art on the walls, but all were within earshot. One filed in soon after the last astartes entered the room, and Hieron was glad to see it was Tyrannus, who moved to stand by his Strategos, surveying the marines in the room. Good, everyone was here, it was time to begin.

  
  


“Cousins,” the room went silent, all eyes on the imposing terminator. “Today was a glorious day. Not only did we save countless worlds from the taint of the xeno, we ensured that for centuries to come, no other horde of savage aliens will ravage the Emperor’s domain unchecked. I thank you all for making this possible, and for ensuring the safety of our charges from harm, and you should all be congratulated. Honors will be given, acts of valor and courage will be commended, and the fallen will be remembered, for their actions, their sacrifices, allowed us to claim victory from a hated foe,” he spoke, the astartes in the room cheered jubilantly, praises to the Emperor interspersed throughout the unfiltered noise.

  
  


“However, this is not the focal point for you being here. As much as I am pleased to see that my cousins still live, there is a matter of high importance that needs to be discussed.”

  
  


The room instantly filled with energy, anticipation and excitement charging the atmosphere. They knew what he was talking about, and eagerly awaited to hear his input.

  
  


“I will not lie to you cousins. My heart pushes me to give favor and allow this to be reborn, but my mind races to fill my psyche with all manner of dark thoughts and visions of strife, envy and spite, beseeching me to end it before it could do us harm. Holonnius, Duratan, I would hear your thoughts on this matter before I make a decision, " he finished.

  
  


Conversations began amongst the astartes in the room, mainly among the captains in the room, conversing about all manners of subjects as the three chapter masters moved to a corner of the room away from the throngs of astartes to have a personal discussion.

  
  


“What troubles you, cousin? You’ve never shown this much visible hesitation in a decision before,” Holonnius queried, a look of concern coloring his features.

  
  


“It must be something of high importance to give you pause, Hieron. You’re usually so strong minded, bloody stubborn is what I call it, but yes, tell us what is causing such hesitation,” Duratan added.

  
  


A moment’s pause.

  
  


“It is the history within this event that concerns me, cousins. It is rich with glories and tales of legends, but it also contains tales of division, strife, and broken bonds of brotherhood and friendship.”

  
  


“You speak of the time of turmoil in M.37, yes?” Holonnius asked. As a proficient scholar, and knowing the history of that era well, he knew what Hieron was referring to.

  
  


“I do,” he affirmed. “The wounded pride of both of our chapters caused our predecessors to make fallacious decisions, which ultimately hurt us, and our brother chapter as we tried to spite one another. It is something that cannot be allowed to be reborn. The relationship amongst our chapters has never been stronger as they are now, and I wouldn’t sacrifice it for anything.”

  
  


“We ceased all contact with both of your chapters of our own volition. While it was due to the deteriorating relations of both your chapters, it was ultimately our decision to separate ourselves from the wider sector, isolating us from both mortal and astartes aid until it was too late. Do not forget, Hieron, that both the Iron Kings and Noble Crusaders put aside your differences to aid us in our time of loss and need,” Duratan pointed out.

  
  


“But it was the loss of two entire companies and the destruction of your fiefdom that dragged us out of our morrase of petty disputes and slights. This event could possibly drag our chapters back into the same circumstances our forebears faced. Rivalries, once friendly and beneficial, could turn dark with envy and wounded pride. It seems to me that that is the most likely outcome if I say yes,” Hieron lamented.

  
  


Holonnius stared at Hieron, a small frown marring his perfect features.

  
  


“You speak of such foul tiding as if they are inevitable. Do you not trust yourself, and your cousins to act accordingly and within reason?”

  
  


Hieron glanced at Holonnius, a thoughtful look upon his features. He knew of each chapter’s conduct with one another quite well, and knew each chapter master well enough to gauge them. Holonnius was prideful of his skills, his intellect, and seeks perfection in all he does, and becomes extremely frustrated when he cannot achieve it. He expects a level of skill of all of his peers, and becomes somewhat exasperated when he finds them lacking. However, he has never seen his friend become so frustrated to the point of anger or violence, as he has with other, more bellicose chapters, and has a habit of healthy self improvement when he discovers a failing. All the while he encourages and trains those around him to a skill level he is happy with, or at the very least can tolerate. He trusts his friend to be magnanimous in defeat and in victory.

  
  


Duratan was hot blooded, eager to argue with and fight his fellow astartes as the enemy, but it never went beyond friendly competition and banter, and it came from a sense of brotherhood. His brothers and comrades meant everything to him, and he would sacrifice much to ensure that his comrades were safe. He could see the astartes’ competitive streak growing more prominent whenever the games are held, but doesn’t see the spiteful feelings growing in the chapter master after a loss. Only a sense of purpose, to become ever more skilled and beat his competitors. He is certain of that.

  
  


He could see a few failings within himself. He loathes failure, but could live with it if it ever were to happen. He has a tendency to become cynical and dour when that happens, but not to the point that it alienates those around him. His biggest failing was his stubbornness. He was wont to conquer an enemy or succeed in a task with firepower and force, regardless of the changes on the battlefield. His plans were his all, and he followed them through to the end. Thankfully, this hasn’t resulted in mass casualties and defeats, but only because of his meticulous planning and extensive scouting of the battlefield and the foe to be defeated. His plans were often pragmatic and lacking in heroics and daring action. Why kill an enemy up close when you could kill them from afar, without risk to you? Regardless, he saw in himself the potential to fail his _Tagma_ , his chapter, and his brother chapters by falling to vice and envy, but he trusted himself to overcome whatever obstacles came in his way.

  
  


“I trust both you and your chapters to carry yourselves with the dignity and discipline of astartes,” he concluded.

  
  


“Then there is the answer to your doubts, cousin. Trust us to not repeat the mistakes of our forebears. We are not them, and that should be considered. But ultimately, it is your decision,” Holonnius finished, waiting for Hieron’s answer.

  
  


“Yes, it is your decision, but consider this. You get to see my champion flounce whatever boulevardier Holonnius sends my way,” Duratan jeered playfully.

  
  


A gasp of outrage came from the beatific astartes, and the two re-engaged in their earlier argument, leaving Hieron alone with his thoughts. His cousins' words were all that he needed to hear, and he was assured in allowing this to come to fruition. He trusted them, and them him, and he would honor that trust. He watched the argument between his cousins, rolling his eyes and smiling, for he had been witness to countless similar arguments before, and they never resolved anything other than reinforcing their own beliefs, skewed as they were.

  
  


“All right, I’ve made my decision.”  
  
  
And with that statement, the argument ended, the two looking upon their kin with rapt attention. He gestured for them to return to the throng of astartes in the room, and did so, standing next to his Kentarch as they stood with their captains and lieutenants. All were silent.

  
  


“Let the War Games be reborn!”

  
  


A great cheer came from the astartes, and Hieron smiled once more. A sudden movement caught his eye, a chapter serf, weaving through the astartes present and prostrating himself at his fore, drawing the attention of all within the room.

  
  


“Lord, I bring urgent news!”

  
  


“Let us hear it,” he responded.

  
  


“Our long range augers have picked up readings of a massive fleet entering the sector! We have managed to triangulate their trajectory, and they’re on route to a cluster of mining worlds in the Astenae sub-sector of the Heracles Sector. Local Imperial Navy Elements are requesting our aid in repelling the encroaching fleet, lord, as they have not responded to any hails,” the serf finished, bowing.

  
  


A hum of intrigue came from the lord of the Noble Crusaders. “Who would invade the sector after our resounding victory? Surely whomever is commanding this fleet must know the dangers, and our prowess.”

  
  


The remark sparked some thought in the Strategos, but he chose to ignore the comment. “Have we the number of enemy vessels in the fleet, and their classes?”

  
  


“Yes lord. Our sensors have recorded at least one battleship class vessel, seven cruiser class vessels, ten destroyer class vessels, and thirty escort class vessels, lord. The Imperial Navy has only a handful of battlegroups in the local volume, and needs time to gather its full strength.”

  
  


“Time that the mining worlds do not have,” Hieron muttered. “What is the projected time before the pirate fleet reaches its destination?”

  
  


“Estimates are around one or two weeks before the unknown fleet reaches their target, lord. We’ve also received unconfirmed reports that they are of Imperial origin.”

  
  


This revelation spurred much discussion between the captains, and the three chapter masters were concerned as well. Hieron had received reports three months ago about an Imperial battlegroup, headed by the battleship _Loyal Parable_ , disappearing from the Reductus sector without a trace. Invaluable vessels, ancient and powerful, were lost, seemingly without explanation. The full might of the chapters present, supported by Imperial Navy elements, had scoured the Reductus sector in its entirety for the battlegroup, but found no trace of the lost Imperial vessels. Now, an unidentified fleet of supposed Imperial origin is passing through the sector, not responding to any hails, and is on course towards a cluster of mining worlds, keels gleaming and weapons hot. It is suspicious at best, and downright seditious at worst. Either way, it would be beneficial for the Iron Kings to engage in boarding actions, as their skills in that area are in need of renewal.

  
  


“Relay to the Imperial Navy elements that the Iron Kings will discover the origin of this fleet, who commands it, and if they are hostile, will be destroyed with extreme prejudice,” Hieron told the serf.

  
  


“Yes, lord. I will ensure the message is relayed,” the serf said. They soon weaved through the throng of astartes and left the room, racing to the chapter’s astropathic choir.

  
  


“Doing the Navy’s wetwork, Hieron? You are overly helpful to these mortals, and they aren’t even under your direct purview,” Holonnius remarked.

  
  


“As much as I hate to say it, I agree with the peacock. This is a task for mortal humans, not the blessed astartes of the Emperor. I believe that there is still the Ork stronghold beyond the borders of the segmentum to deal with. That would be a better use of your chapter’s skills, Hieron,” Duratan agreed with a scowl on his face.

  
  


“While it is a task more suited for baseline humans, it is in our interest to aid those that protect the subjects of He Upon the Throne. It is pertinent to establish good relations to all local defense forces and Imperial military elements, so that coordination and cooperation is as smooth and as swift as possible,” Hieron responded.

  
  


“You just want them indebted to you, cousin. Helping them is just a cover you use to get favors and debts from the mortals around you. I understand your tactics, and applaud them,” Holonnius remarked with a smirk.

  
  


“That is not the reason! Desiring the success of other servants of He is a valid reason for aiding them in their time of need,” Hieron protested, but grimaced when Duratan joined his cousin in the teasing, smirking at the Strategos.

  
  


“Just admit it, cousin. There is no shame in it. It is more than I can actually say when regarding the welfare of mortals. I always forget those under my protection. Different faces every century, so I never bother with remembering their names,” Duratan said with a shrug.

  
  


“You should try it, cousin. It brightens their mood considerably when you remember their names, and increases their effectiveness and efficiency tenfold. It comes from a perceived feeling of worth, to be recognized by an astartes, much less a chapter master,” Holonnius conversed.

  
  


“Why? They’ll be replaced by another face in a mere century or two. It is pointless to put the effort in to remember them and their names, only to have to do the process all over again in a century. It is more practical to just remember their title and refer to them as such. Makes it easier on all I say,” Duratan finished.

  
  


“Enough! I tire of this banter. Kentarch Tyrannus, ready the _Tagma_ , we go to war,” Hieron said. He saw the two chapter masters smirk at one another at his outburst, and knew in his twin hearts that he’ll be teased for another decade or two about this.

  
  


“Yes Strategos, your will be done!” the Kentarch replied before leaving the room.

  
  


“You taking your _Exkoubitoi_ for this one Hieron?” Duratan asked.

  
  


“They are the most experienced of my _Tagma_ in boarding engagements, and are the best armored, so yes,” he responded.

  
  


“A tad overkill, cousin. Mere armsmen do not warrant your terminator elite. A couple of your line companies can do the job faster, and more effectively,” remarked Holonnius.

  
  


“My entire chapter will be boarding the fleet, and my _Exkoubitoi_ will be accompanying me in boarding the battleship, along with the First _Kentarchia._ We will see what this is all about, and if needs be, slaughter all who oppose us and the Imperium.”

  
  


A huff from Holonnius. “May the Emperor have mercy on their souls if they do oppose you,” he said.

  
  


“Will you both be joining us?” Hieron asked.

  
  


“Nay, cousin, but we will watch. It’s always interesting to watch your chapter in action, especially in boarding actions. You lot always become so vicious when you engage in boarding, rivaling Duratan’s savages in skill,” the beatific astartes responded.

  
  


“They don’t surpass us, peacock, nor do yours, remember that. But their skill is admirable. Have some of your men cross train with ours, and your warriors will be up to par in no time,” Duratan boomed, his chin raised in challenge at the affronted look Holonnius was giving him.

  
  


“Yours always tie with mine when they duel, so you can’t claim that they’re better,” retorted Holonnius.

  
  


“I can and I shall, for there is ample proof that my warriors are better than yours in close quarters!” snapped Duratan, his temper up, his blood boiling for a fight.

  
  


“You brutes still use a chain axe, while I and my warriors use more elegant, and civilized, weapons,” Holonnius taunted playfully.

  
  


“That halberd of yours can shove it! My Warbringer has laid low many warbosses. Certainly more than your twig!”

  
  


“Faithkeeper has slain as many, if not more, of the savage alien than that crude thing in your hand! It is more pleasant to behold as well!”

  
  


“Looks matter little, if at all, when you have a heaving greenskin staring you down!”

  
  


Both chapter masters glared at one another, palpable tension filling the room. The captains and lieutenants stared at one another in silence, speaking to one another in a private vox channel, placing bets on who would win in the upcoming brawl. The arguments between the two were so common that the betting would take place as soon as the argument started, regardless of whether or not it was an appropriate setting. They would never know as both chapter masters grinned at one another and clasped each other's forearm in mutual disagreement.

  
  


“Agree to disagree?” Holonnius asked.

  
  


“Agree to disagree,” affirmed Duratan.

  
  


“If you two are done, we have ships to board,” playfully remarked Hieron.

  
  


The group filed out of the Oratorium and back towards the landing pads, a flurry of thunderhawks carried the three chapters back to their ships in high orbit. The Iron Kings fleet, consisting of four battle barges, ten strike cruisers, and untold squadrons of escort vessels, immediately set a course to intercept the unknown fleet, while the Noble Crusaders and the Nova Rampagers, each chapter having the proscribed number of vessels dictated by the Codex Astartes, followed behind at a distance, content with watching from afar.

  
  


**Heracles Sector**

  
  


The three chapter fleets exited the warp, and Hieron was surprised to see that the unknown fleet was not far away, based on his ship’s augers. He immediately began to plan, his mind racing faster than a baseline could even comprehend, and he already had a framework of a strategy. He would split his fleet into two separate battlegroups. The first, led by his vessel, would immediately plunge into the midst of the fleet, boarding and disabling key ships that would become problematic if not dealt with immediately. He would focus on the destroyers guarding the center of the fleet, where the cruisers and, his end goal, the battleship resided. They would be easily taken, breacher squads would make short work of whatever complement of armsmen were aboard, seizing the bridge, engine and plasma reactor sections of the vessel, venting out whatever crew remained that weren’t compliant or too dangerous to contain. They would work their way to the cruisers, where his battle barges would engage them, distracting them long enough for boarding teams to take control, giving him an opportunity to launch assault rams and thunderhawks at the battleship, where he and his _Exkoubitoi_ , along with the First _Kentarchia_ would make short work of whatever complement was aboard.

  
  


The second group would focus on the remaining destroyers and escort vessels, keeping them corralled in while preserving the ships, boarding teams capturing each and every vessel and destroying those that tried to break out if capturing them wasn't possible.

  
  


This all would take place if the fleet turns hostile. He needs to know who they are, why they are here, and if they were of Imperial origin, and were the lost fleet of the Reductus Sector, then why they had forsaken their duty. If they met no resistance, and they were renegades, traitors, or other ilk, then boarding actions to take control of the vessels would be the only thing they would have to do, and any hint of duplicity would be met with brutal suppression. The vessels could be returned to the Imperial Navy elements in the area, the crew he would have mercy upon, and he would decide what to do with them when it was all over.

  
  


“Lord, the fleet has noticed us, but has not made any attempt at fleeing or attacking us,” a serf manning the augers reported.

  
  


“Attempt to hail them. If they do not respond, then we move into attack formation,” Hieron ordered, his voice stern and unyielding.

  
  


“Yes lord, hailing them now.”

  
  


A few moments of silence went by with no change, and Hieron was beginning to order battle formations when they received an answer.

  
  


“So, the Emperor’s Angels of Death have come to bring us to heel. Typical, you lap dogs can’t help but do his bidding, regardless of whether he cares for your fates,” a voice, cynical and cold, rang out over the vox, the sneer palpable even without visual confirmation.

  
  


Hieron strode to the vox and made himself known. “This is Strategos Hieron of the Iron Kings, to whom do I speak, and what is your purpose here?” he barked.

  
  


“Oh, humblest of greetings to you, oh mighty chapter master, slave to your corpse god. I am but a servant of someone who warrants more prestige and reverence than your false Emperor. The mighty Warsmith Damophon, a great warlord who will crush this Imperium to ash, and all will bend the knee to his unequaled might!"

  
  


He had never heard of this warlord before, but decided to humor this clearly deranged fool.

  
  


"Know this, servant of Damophon. We will crush you underfoot with contempt, as you are akin to parasites, feeding off of the subjects of He Upon the Throne. We will excise you, and ensure your ilk will never taint the good and pure of this Imperium as long as we live," he snarled.

  
  


“Oh I’m sure you will attempt, servant of the corpse god, but The Iron Immortals have never been defeated by the blind zealots you protect so fiercely, so fervently. What makes you think that you would succeed, with so few resources, whereas full armadas and billions of soldiers have failed?” the voice asked, the inherent curiosity twinged with a mocking overtone.

  
  


“Because we are astartes, the Emperor’s chosen, and by our hand you will face judgement!”

  
  


A bored sigh sounded over the vox. “As original as ever, I see. The newbloods lack personality and creativeness in their threats. Oh well, what can be done?” the voice asked rhetorically. “Anyhow, if you wish to gain more information, I suggest you try to capture these vessels intact and the crew as unmolested as possible. If you hurry, you might be able to capture me before I leave to report my findings to my master,” it finished, the vox channel being cut as the final word was spoken.

  
  


Immediately after, the fleet, now confirmed to be renegades, began to move into battle formations, attack craft began to swarm around the battleship and cruisers, the destroyers and escorts forming a cordon around the large warships. Hieron wasted no time in enacting his battle plans, modifying it slightly, ordering his _Tagma_ to take prisoners when possible, and to kill without mercy if not, charging into the fray with three battle barges, including the _Iron Vigil_ , and several strike cruisers, hammering away at the enemy void shields, macro cannons and lance batteries launching salvo after salvo at the foe, assault rams and boarding torpedoes plunging into the enemy ships, disgorging their cargo of boarding shields and bolters, the image of the brutal and terrifying Mark III plate seared into the minds of the renegade crews and armsmen before they were taken hostage or obliterated by bolter fire, while the second group surrounded the fleet, harrying those that tried to flee, forcing them back into the ever tightening circle. The cruisers and battleship launched their own volleys, their munitions hammering into the void shields of the battle barges and strike cruisers, damaging many, crippling the strike cruiser _Glorious Muse_ , forcing the crew to abandon ship and regroup upon the battle barge _Dauntless Fury_ , carrying as many relics and treasures of the chapter as they could.

  
  


Swarms of attack craft flitted and weaved through the throng of warships, battling and chasing their foes through the streams of macro cannon and lance fire. Hundreds upon hundreds of fighter craft became balls of flame streaking through the void, though many more came to replace them, creating a never ending stream of fire and death. Sections of attack craft made a cordon around the assault rams, escorting them to their targets, taking many casualties in the process, then returning to the battle without rest.

  
  


Hieron and the First _Kentarchia_ , along with his bodyguard, the _Exkoubitoi_ , moved to the hangar bay, where a flight of seven thunderhawks awaited them. Half of the _First Kentarchia_ were clad in the venerable Mark III plate and carried boarding shields and bolters, the other half clad in terminator plate, assault cannons, power swords and storm shields being their panoply of war. The _Exkoubitoi_ , ten of the First _Kentarchia_ , wore Cataphractii armor, similar to their Strategos, and carried combi-bolters, power swords and mauls of superlative craftsmanship. Hieron carried his power maul Morning Glory in his right hand, and in his left he wielded a Tigrus pattern combi-bolter, each crafted by his own hands. They entered the thunderhawks, and awaited the moment they would streak towards their target. 

  
  


"Take as many of them alive as you possibly can, brothers. Any and all information regarding this new threat to the sector is valuable. Secure all means of escape for the crew and their leaders. Sabotage their defenses, and ensure that those who resist are delivered the Emperor’s judgment!

  
  


"By our efforts," he began.

  
  


"May His subjects prosper!" they finished.

  
  


He looked at those accompanying him, and smiled when he saw the Tartaros plate of Tyrannus, gleaming in the overhead lighting, lightning claws glinting with deadly intent. Soon, it was time, as the thunderhawks lifted off from the hangar bay and raced towards the battleship, a massive swarm of fighter craft and bombers guarding them, scores being shredded in the void between the two warships by flak guns and anti-aircraft cannons.

  
  


“Vigil 1 will clear you a path, Strategos, so that the traitors may feel the Emperor’s wrath!” a voice came over the vox.

  
  


“Acknowledged, Vigil 1, may He guide your aim and may your intentions be true,” Hieron responded.

  
  


The thunderhawks banked to and fro as macro cannon fire streamed from the battleship, smashing against the _Iron Vigil’s_ void shields. The battle barge responded with aid from her sister ship and launched massive volleys of shot, the warship’s shields being hammered by two battle barges, marco cannon and lance batteries ripping away its void shields just in time for the thunderhawks to fly inside the hangar bay, the fighter wings peeling off to secure the void in between the vessels. 

  
  


Hieron felt the craft sway and shudder as it landed, the hydraulics hissing and gasses venting, and charged out when the ramp lowered, and what he saw nearly stopped him in his tracks. Scores of renegade armsmen were pouring into the hangar bay, autoguns and flechette cannons their main armament, though some carried the occasional las gun, but they were not what caught his attention. Standing among the throng of renegade armsmen were towering armored figures of gunmetal grey and yellow hazard chevrons with a golden trim, a skull emblazoned upon their left pauldron.Their number wore a mixture of Mark III and II battle armor, the plate unmistakable and ancient, maintained to bare functionality, bearing none of the heraldry of any modern astartes chapter, the armor lacking the aquila to signify unending loyalty.

  
  


Renegade Astartes, traitor marines, heretics.

  
  


“Traitors! Secure our landing zone, and meet out the Emperor’s judgement!” he barked, aiming his combi-bolter and letting loose a fusillade of bolt rounds.

  
  


The rest of the thunderhawks landed in the hangar bay, and the entirety of the First _Kentarchia_ joined the Strategos in pushing back the renegades. The terminators moved to the front, their hulking frames taking the brunt of fire, while the breacher and tactical squads formed on the wings and behind the terminators, a wall of shields and bolters meeting the foe. The rolling tide of ceramite, led by Hieron, advanced upon the renegades and traitors, dozens upon dozens of armsmen were incapacitated, their efforts doing nothing to stop the advance of the Iron Kings. Hieron would swing his maul to and fro, the power setting on his weapon low enough for knocking out and wounding many armsmen, his mind racing as his body moved without thought, already making plans on containing, and ultimately crushing the threat of traitor astartes to the sector, and was concerned that the fighting would reach his personal sector and his people, when he was ripped from his inner thoughts as he blocked a strike from a traitor marine, the blade pressing on the haft of the maul with bone breaking force.

  
  


“You lap dogs are blind to the truth! They care nothing for you, and will not weep when you are gone. They will just find more to replace you, and continue on as if nothing happened, your valor and sacrifice unremembered, your service forgotten,” the traitor astartes snarled, the vox grille enhancing the cynical, cold tone to deafening levels.

  
  


“And you decided to forsake your oaths just to be remembered?! This is the reality of our service. It is endless, thankless, and at times honorless, but we do it because it is our duty!” Hieron roared back, pushing the astartes away, dialing the power setting on his power maul to maximum.

  
  


Before the traitor marine could react, Hieron swung his weapon with blinding speed, connecting with the helm of the traitor, their head disappearing in a bloody mess of mangled metal and pulped flesh. The body stood for a few moments more, hands and limbs twitching, before falling over and going still. The death of one of their lords made the armsmen pause for a moment, their will wavering before being pushed onwards by the threats and orders of the remaining traitor astartes, their actions taking on a more desperate air as they tried to fulfill their purpose.

  
  


Hieron made it his personal mission to seek out and take down each traitor marine, his power maul and combi-bolter reaping a heavy toll, his advance unstoppable and inexorable. He would not be denied. These armsmen feared their erstwhile lords more than they feared the Iron Kings, so in order for this battle to end quickly, he had to cut off the head of the snake, and watch the body wither and die. He spotted Tyrannus among his _Exkoubitoi_ , lighting claws ripping traitor marines to shreds, shrugging off whatever the enemy threw at him, incapacitating the armsmen with little effort. Soon, only one traitor marine was left, pock marks dotting his aged Mark II plate, commanding a pitiful band of renegade armsmen, the armsmen hesitant to attack, moving closer and closer together the closer the loyalists became.

  
  


“They will flay you alive if you don’t fight! Go now! In the name of Damophon!” the traitor marine shouted, stabbing one of the armsmen with their sword, killing the mortal instantly in an effort to spur the rest into action. It only seemed to move them towards inaction, fear paralyzing them.

  
  


Hieron, in an instance of uncharacteristic restraint for imperial forces, had those under his command lower their weapons. What followed was so out of sorts that the armsmen and traitor astartes stared at him in sheer astonishment. His men were used to his spiel by now, and were unphased by the words that came from their leader.

  
  


“Surrender now, and you will be treated with fairness,” he entreated. “You will be judged impartially, and your sins cleansed if you are willing to repent.”

  
  


The armsmen, looking back and forth from the traitor astartes to Hieron, knew their choices were damnation by the Imperium, or damnation by their overlords, so were compelled to fight and die, as that was their ultimate fate either way. But with this new offer, this chance of clemency and fair judgement, their choice was clear, and threw down their arms without second thought, being escorted by two breacher astartes, bound and secured, to the rest of the captured armsmen not killed in the battle. The traitor marine stood alone, his sword held at the ready, but knew his chances at surviving were slim to none, especially when confronted with so many terminators, his hesitance clear for all to see.

  
  


“You care for those mewling wretches?” they asked, their prideful, sneering confidence rang hollow by the nervous twinge attached to it. “They aren’t even worth the effort to keep alive, let alone used as cannon fodder. You’re better off slaughtering them now. Their loyalty is a feeble, craven thing.”

  
  


Hieron shook his head. “All subjects, current and former, of He Upon the Throne deserve a chance at redemption.”

  
  


“You prattle on about mercy, saving these worthless mortals, yet you slaughter my kin with zeal in your hearts. You hypocrites disgust me,” the traitor astartes sneered.

  
  


“They surrendered, your kin did not, and are willing to make amends and repent for their crimes,” he said. “Your sins can be atoned for if you tell us where your leader can be found.”

  
  


This made the traitor marine give pause, his horizontally crested Mark II helm cocked to one side, and in that silence Hieron ordered for the rest of the First _Kentarchia_ to secure the key sections of the ship, and to report to him when their tasks were done, Tyrannus leading the effort, leaving two tactical squads to guard the prisoners and secure their exit. His _Exkoubitoi_ remained by his side, their oaths to protect their lord paramount above all else, regardless of their liege’s combat prowess. The thought of leaving him alone, with a traitor no less, set their nerves on edge.

  
  


“You….you mock me,” the traitor astartes murmured, outrage building behind each word. “You mock me, in my final hour, with the empty promise of atonement. How dare you mock me!”

  
  


“It is no jest, nor am I mocking you. I am genuine in my offer to give you clemency, but only if you willingly surrender yourself and tell us where your lord is.”

  
  


The traitor started to shake their head. “I am damned. Damned if I surrender, damned if I do not. Your honeyed words lure me to my doom, while I am damned if I survive, having failed my lord, who will surely kill me for my failure. You loyalists are the worst of foes. Your cousins in other chapters at the very least are honest in their intent, but you, you lie and use guile to achieve your ends.”

  
  


Hieron sighed in annoyance, his merciful attitude waning by the second.

  
  


“If I defeat you in personal combat, would you surrender yourself?” he huffed.

  
  


Another moment’s pause, and he was about to order his _Exkoubitoi_ to end this here and now, but the traitor’s words halted such thoughts in their tracks.

  
  


“Yes, I can see myself surrendering without reservations if you beat me in single combat. Ready yourself,” the astartes said.

  
  


He handed off his combi-bolter to one of his _Exkoubitoi_ and held his maul to the side, deactivating the field, waiting for the traitor to make the first move. He didn’t have to wait long as the marine charged him with a fierce shout, followed by a swift strike towards his helm. Hieron parried the blade and moved to strike, testing the traitor’s reflexes, not looking to kill. The marine used his pauldron to glance the blow, layers of ablative ceramite being shorn off, moving in closer, striking with ferocity and skill, trying to get at the terminator’s rear. Hieron countered and maneuvered, keeping the marine to his front. The traitor and chapter master circled one another, the marine ferocious and skilled in his attacks, while the Strategos countered and defended with surety and calm. This colored the next few minutes of the bout, the marine gaining little, and the Strategos not budging an inch. It was one thing to fight against another marine in regular power armor, where the odds were evenly matched and the only determining factor was skill, but it was another thing entirely to fight another marine in terminator armor, where the odds were stacked against you. The marine had to be lucky every time they attacked, evading or glancing whatever retaliatory blows came their way. The terminator only had to be lucky once, scoring a hit that killed or immobilized their opponent. Both knew this, the outcome already decided, but both fought on regardless.

  
  


Hieron feinted, presenting a false opening when he purposefully swung his weapon wide, missing his target, allowing the marine to get close, allowing them to fall into his trap, before swiftly bringing his maul back around and striking with frightening speed and force, the maul crashing against the marine’s side, cracking the overlapping ceramite plates. The blow flung the marine to the side, the traitor stumbled as they tried to keep their feet under them, but crashed to the ground all the same. He turned, keeping his foe to his front, and watched as the traitor struggled to get to his feet, the blow clearly wounding the astartes significantly. He suspected major internal damage, but couldn’t be sure.

  
  


“Do you yield?” he asked the traitor after a minute of watching them struggle to rise.

  
  


A hoarse voice, tight with pain, responded. “Nay, I still wield my weapon.”

  
  


Hieron rolled his eyes at the clearly defeated astartes, but nonetheless moved closer to the hunched form of his opponent, raising his maul and bringing it down on their sword arm with great force, the maul crushing the ceramite and plasteel, mangling the limb, which released the sword from its now limp grasp. A short howl of pain came from the traitor, before they smothered it, replacing it with heaving breaths. The terminator picked up the sword, a deactivated power sword of the Proteus pattern. A rare thing in the current millennium. His attention was drawn back to the wounded astartes, who had drawn himself to his knees, his helm bowed.

  
  


“You have bested me in combat. I surrender myself to you,” he proclaimed. “Take my sword as proof of my reputability.”

  
  


“I accept your surrender, and accept your token of forthrightness. You shall remain in my company, under the watch of my honor guard. If there is a hint of duplicity, you will be excised without mercy,” Hieron declared, as much to his captive as to his honor guard.

  
  


“I expect nothing less, lord.”

  
  


With the matter settled, he acquired his combi-bolter from the _Exkoubitoi_ he handed it to and moved towards the bridge, followed by his honor guard and captive, surrounded by the imposing terminators.

  
  


“Kentarch Tyrannus, what is the status of the First _Kentarchia_?” he asked, establishing a secure vox channel to his trusted second.

  
  


“They are progressing as planned, my Strategos. _Dekarkia_ 3 and 7 have secured the warp drives, and _Dekarkia_ 4, 6, and 8 have sabotaged the lance batteries and are clearing the lower decks around our landing zone of enemy combatants, reporting rapid progress. _Dekarkia_ 2 has secured the enginarium, and _Dekarkia_ 5 is currently engaged in the section of the ship containing the macro-batteries, meeting heavy resistance from traitor astartes and armsmen, but report steady progress.”

  
  


“Have _Dekarkia_ 6 reinforce _Dekarkia_ 5 when the decks have been secured, and send _Dekarkia_ 3, 4, and 8 to guard our landing zone and pathways to the warp drive, and enginarium. Send _Dekarkia_ 7 to sabotage the armory as soon as possible. When possible, have the 2nd _Kentarchia_ reinforce us. I and the _Exkoubitoi_ are headed to the bridge. It is time to secure this ship.”

  
  


“Yes my Strategos! Your will be done!”

  
  


The vox channel was severed, and Hieron continued towards his target. His mind shifted to his wounded captive, and at the incredulity of them actually surrendering when beaten, instead of fighting to the bitter end as their comrades did. What was his aim? What falsehoods did they wish to sow into the _Tagma_. Did they hope to gain his trust, and later betray them when the opportunity presented itself? The possibility was high, and that was him considering it right now, surrounded by his terminator honor guard. But he had to be sure.

  
  


He intended to honor his own words regardless. He was no hypocrite, despite the traitor’s claims, and he would ensure that this traitor would serve the Emperor’s will before they died. In fact, it wouldn’t hurt to get some information out of him while they marched to the bridge. He already had a picture of the number of mortal crew and traitors aboard, but asking would only get him a clearer picture. That, or it could muddy the waters, and lead him astray. It was a chance he was willing to take.

  
  


“What is the complement of this vessel, traitor?”

  
  


The marine turned from the turmoil that were his thoughts to the Strategos, still in shock that the chapter master hadn’t executed him yet. Perhaps he needed information, and once that was acquired, he would be disposed of. Well, he was dead either way.

  
  


“This vessel has a complement of 300,000 mortal crew, and 130 Iron Immortals aboard, lord, now 115 since your arrival.”

  
  


A hum of acknowledgement came from Hieron.

  
  


“Who commands this vessel?”

  
  


Before the traitor astartes could answer, autogun and las fire drew his attention to a four way intersection down the corridor, looking upon a massive horde of mortal crew of a varied mixture of baseline humans; armsmen and various castes of crew, cloned human slaves, gaunt and pale with ragged clothing and pitiful physiques, and towering, heavily armored figures that looked like ogryns, large and robust, wielding heavy stubbers, flechette cannons, autoguns and melee weapons. They were charging their positions with a maddened fervor unakin to their captive comrades in the hangar bay, which made him pause for a split second, more than enough for his honor guard to notice.

  
  


Two of his _Exkoubitoi_ moved to stand to either side of him, forming a towering wall of ceramite and plasteel to greet the oncoming horde. Hieron lowered the power setting for his weapon, his honor guards following suit, to limit the damage to the combatants and to facilitate their capture. The mass of renegades crashed against the terminators, who tried to incapacitate the mortals, but found to their confusion that no matter how many times they struck them down and bludgeoned them, they would rise again a few moments later, hacking or shooting at them. The ferocity of the assault momentarily surprised Hieron, who noticed that their actions were near suicidal, flinging themselves on the weapons of the terminators without care for their own health, their eyes glazed over, as if in a trance or under some outside influence. He may have to terminate them, as it was becoming more and more apparent that they were beyond reason.

  
  


He was most interested in the armored, ogryn-like figures, who were more cognizant of the battle than their smaller comrades, behaving more cautiously, avoiding the blows of the terminators. They rushed in whenever a large throng of armsmen charged the terminators, trying to get behind the line he formed with his terminator guards, drawing his attention, but never committing to anything. They were too intelligent to be mere ogryns. He had much experience interacting with them while working with the Imperial Guard, and they were not the hallmarks of intellect, abstract thought or military strategy, relying on the commissars to point them in the direction of the enemy and telling them to kill whoever was standing in their way. The behavior he was witnessing was beyond that by far. They weren’t ogryns, that much he knew. But what else could they be? He watched them closely, keeping an eye on them as he struck any mortal who strayed too close with brutal force, a gnawing feeling of subterfuge at work, but wasn’t able to come to any conclusion.

  
  


“Strategos!”

  
  


The voice of one of his _Exkoubitoi_ over the local vox channel drew his attention to the rear, and he was stunned to see more large, towering armored figures, taller than those he fought in the hangar bay, seeming to appear from nowhere, engaging the honor guards at his back, power swords, spears and mauls clashing in a furious melee. There were eight attackers, one for each terminator, garbed in blue and silver, with designs of chains, the ancient grecian characters Alpha and Omega, and a many headed beast resplendent on their armor. They moved with unseen coordination, each one compensating for the weakness of another, while enhancing the strengths of all, and only by the sheer skill and experience, with centuries of working together as a unit, possessed by his _Exkoubitoi_ , and the fact that they each were wearing thick, Cataphractii terminator plate, were the enemy kept at bay.

  
  


He returned his attention back to the front, only to see a spear hurtling straight towards his helm, faster than any mortal could achieve on their own merits. He swatted the missile out of the air when it came close, and spotted more armored figures, clad in the same manner as those at his rear, subconsciously dialing the maul to full power. What intrigued him was that the ogryn-like figures were gone, and these armored traitors have taken their place. He swung his power maul with lightning speed, catching one of the armored figures flat footed as four of them tried to attack one of his _Exkoubitoi_ all at once, the mace crushing the plastron of the traitor, hyper oxygenated blood and gore spraying the corridor walls, sending the marine hurtling back into the horde of mortals, crushing a few as he landed. He did not get back up. He aimed his combi-bolter and let loose a salvo of bolt rounds, striking the leg and helm of the other, killing them in an instant. The honor guard finished off the other two, pulping the armor and flesh of one with his combi-bolter, and crushing the helm of the other with his maul.

  
  


Only one armored figure remained to his front, wielding a power spear, his Mark IV power armor covered in sea green scales, similar to some ancient reptilian beast, a silver crest crafted in the image of a snarling three headed beast upon his helm, which was wholly unique to the warrior. Hieron hefted his maul, mechanisms in his combi-bolter cycling fresh rounds into the weapon, readying himself.

  
  


“Hydra Dominatus!” the warrior shouted, charging, a group of mortals at his heels.

  
  


Hieron did not move to dodge the sweeping blow, letting his armor take the brunt of the damage, cosmetic damage wasn’t his concern. His own survival was, however, and he swiped at his foe, the marine parrying and counter attacking with skill and ease, the spear tip bouncing off of the thick ceramite plating. Hieron struck, his target dodging, hitting one of the mortal crew instead, pulping the upper body of the crazed armsmen, sending him flying back into the crowd of enemies. This pattern repeated itself, as the armored traitor utilized the mortals as living shields, directing and or shoving them into the blows of the Strategos, attacking from a different direction as Hieron was focused on dealing with the crazed mortal crew who clawed, struck and flailed against his defenses with abandon.

  
  


The figure leaped, thrusting his spear at Hieron’s helm, but was thrown back by a vicious blow to their midsection, sending them crashing into the corridor walls. What surprised Hieron was that the marine didn’t collapse to their knees, their fortitude more so than his captive. The figure charged again, but was ripped to shreds by bolter fire before they could close the distance. He turned to see that it was one of his _Exkoubitoi_ who killed the traitor, a small nod was exchanged between the two before they returned their attention back to the mortal crew, who were attacking the other terminator honor guard with little success.

  
  


One armsmen charged the Strategos with nothing but their bare hands, who knocked them over with a thrust from his power maul, and held them down with one of his massive sabatons, making sure to apply enough pressure to pin them in place, but not enough to crush them into a bloody paste.

  
  


“Surrender, and you will be given quarter and fair treatment!” he ordered, desperation twinging his tone, but the words fell on deaf ears as the mortal clawed, scratched and swatted at the armored leg with no heed for their current situation, unintelligible shouts and screams answering back, eyes wild, but glazed over. His heart sank, and he knew what must be done.

  
  


“Enact Termination Protocol 1. We don’t have time to waste, and they are beyond saving,” he voxed into the local network, crushing the mortal beneath his sabaton. He regretted what would happen next, but the capture of this ship couldn’t be delayed any longer. These crewmen were gone, maddened and suicidal, unwilling to listen to reason, and he would put them down, a mercy at this point.

  
  


He and the two terminators by his side began to viciously rip into the group of renegade crew, power mauls crushing and tearing apart the mortals with contemptuous ease, bolter fire blowing apart renegade after renegade regardless of their armor, or lack thereof in some cases. Soon there were no hostiles remaining, and they moved to aid the terminators at the rear, forcing the traitor marines back and cutting them to ribbons with massed bolter fire, with only two escaping the slaughter.

  
  


“An Alpha Legion marine named Iovinus commands this vessel. He has an honor guard of warriors around him at all times. These were some of them,” the captive traitor finally responded.

  
  


Hieron was concerned by this information. The Alpha Legion, a force known for infiltration, sabotage, ambushes and assassinations, were incredibly hard to weed out and destroy, as they could disguise themselves as anyone they chose, slipping through checkpoints and infiltrating command structures, bringing down loyalist forces from within through subterfuge and sabotage. He recognized that his tendency for mercy to renegade and traitor mortals, and astartes, would be a weakness when facing this particular foe, but resolved to weed out any agents and spies from those he captured, to ensure that his people, and the wider Imperium, were safe.

  
  


The group readied themselves and resumed their trek to the bridge, groups of roving renegade armsmen, thankfully more sane than those they encountered earlier, either surrendered or retreated on sight, avoiding the walking tanks like they were a virulent plague. Those fortified positions, finely crafted and designed to bleed whatever attacking force came its way, that the group encountered, manned by armsmen and the occasional traitor marine, fell quickly, with either the surrender or the death of those manning the defenses. He noted that more often than not the defenders, prodded along by their astartes lord, were slaughtered, the marine being slain shortly after, which made Hieron’s heart weary with guilt at failing to reclaim lost subjects of He Upon the Throne. The moments of satisfaction and pride he felt when the armsmen surrendered were few and far in between, as there were scores more who died to the man the closer they came to the bridge. He would deal with those emotions later, in his personal chambers, but for right now, he locked them away, and slid on the mask of the calculating, disciplined astartes commander.

  
  


“The Second _Kentarchia_ have boarded the vessel, Strategos, and _Dekarkia_ 5 and 6 have secured the macro-batteries. _Dekarkia_ 7 has secured and sabotaged the armory, and the decks and pathways to the enginarium, warp drives and the area around our landing zone has been secured,” Tyrannus voxed.

  
  


“Good, have The Second _Kentarchia_ replace all First _Kentarchia_ positions, and direct the First _Kentarchia_ towards the bridge. Have them capture all they come across if possible, if not, enact Termination Protocol 1. We are almost to the bridge, and expect heavy resistance.”

  
  


“Yes Strategos. We will arrive in 10 minutes, lord. By our efforts,” the Kentarch began.

  
  


“May His subjects prosper,” Hieron finished.

  
  


The Strategos, accompanied by the _Exkoubitoi_ and his captive, soon reached the pathway to the bridge, which was guarded by five grey, armored figures, wielding a mixture of autocannons and heavy bolters, with one garbed in decrepit Indomitus pattern terminator armor. The traitors soon opened fire, autocannons and heavy bolters launching a massive volley of shot at the terminators, shield generators flaring to life as the projectiles impacted against the energy fields.

  
  


“Traitor, keep to our rear, and stay behind at least one terminator. It is your only chance at surviving this,” Hieron said.

  
  


He, along with his _Exkoubitoi_ , returned fire, a hail of bolt rounds striking the armored figures, one going down after a bolt struck their helm, their head becoming a mess of gore and molten metal. The group advanced down the corridor, brushing aside the wall of fire they were striding through with ease. The captive traitor was tucked behind the towering ceramite clad warriors, sticking close behind the group, far from harm. Soon the terminators reached their targets, and melee combat ensued. The traitor marines discarded their heavy weaponry in favor of power swords, axes and chain swords, and charged the terminators, with the renegade terminator leading the effort. Hieron would meet this terminator and end them.

  
  


The renegade terminator, garbed in a confusing mixture of grey, hazard colors, and bright orange, wielded a thunder hammer and a stormshield, the heraldry of an effaced silver fist upon their left pauldron, covered by a silver skull and hazard colors. A former loyalist of recent founding, who has witnessed what the betrayal of their cousins has done to the galaxy, and yet opposes mankind regardless.

  
  


The renegade terminator swung his thunder hammer, and the blow struck home, sending Hieron back by a single step, denting the plastron. He responded in kind, striding close and swinging his maul, fully powered, striking the helm of the traitor before they could raise their shield to block. The helm was shorn in half, revealing the snarling, damaged face of the renegade, two silver studs upon their gashed brow.

  
  


“Die loyalist dog!” they roared, swinging their thunder hammer once more, striking Hieron’s pauldron.

  
  


Hieron swung again, fast as lightning, shearing off the helm entirely, leaving the head of the traitor open, tearing their face to ribbons. Blood gushed onto their armor, rivulets streaming down the plastron, bright red against gunmetal grey. He bulldozed forward, swatting aside the stormshield, taking a hit from the thunder hammer in the process, adding another dent to be fixed later. He bowled over the renegade terminator, the armored body crashing to the ground with a massive thud. The renegade terminator made to pick themself up, but Hieron never gave them the chance as he leveled the barrels of his combi-bolter to their face and opened fire, their head disappearing in an explosion of red, blood and gore spraying the corridor. The body slumped to the ground, and he moved on towards the entrance, the _Exkoubitoi_ having finished off the remaining traitors.

  
  


He stopped just before the entrance, his _Exkoubitoi_ behind him. As he moved to enter the bridge, he heard the sound of clanking armor behind him, and turned to the sight of the entire First _Kentarchia_ , terminator suits and Mark III battle plate filling the corridor. Among them was Kentarch Tyrannus, who weaved through the armored forms to stand at his superior’s side, armor splattered with blood and viscera.

  
  


“First _Kentarchia_ has arrived, lord. We await your command,” the Kentarch reported.

  
  


“Good. We take the bridge, and secure this vessel. On me!” he ordered, entering the bridge with a hundred of the most skilled astartes of the chapter at his back, beginning a journey that will have him cursing the name of the Alpha Legion for all time.

  
  


He and his men were greeted with the sight of 50 traitor astartes, a mixture of gunmetal grey and ocean blue, wielding an assortment of power weapons and bolters. Upon a command dias sat a figure in Mark IV power armor, a combination of silver and blue coloring his armor, two silver three headed beasts facing one another upon his breastplate, with the Alpha and Omega characters combined in the center. His helm more resembled a silver mask than a piece of war gear, cast in the image of a stern, unyielding war lord of some bygone age, the eye lenses glowing a garish red, his silver pauldrons seeming to reflect the light. Two large figures stood beside this war lord, clad in Cataphractii pattern terminator armor, silver crests topping their helms, both wielding power axes and, Hieron could scarcely believe his own eyes, volkite weaponry, the ancient weapons gleaming in the bridge lumen light.

  
  


“Well then, you reached the bridge, and a full hour slower than most. Well done,” the figure spoke, mockery clear to all within the bridge.

  
  


Hieron moved forward two steps, glaring at the armored traitor. “Surrender now. You and your men will be given quarter and fair treatment.”

  
  


A snort came from the renegade leader at the offer, peals of laughter from the surrounding traitors following soon after, telling Hieron in no uncertain terms what they thought of his mercy. He stood from his seat and slowly marched towards Hieron, his terminator guards following in his wake. He stopped fifteen steps away, looking behind the imposing loyalist terminator, spotting the wounded marine.

  
  


“You managed to capture Hephaestion. He was a good fighter and a leader, for an Iron Warrior, that is,” the traitor sneered, paying no heed to the murderous glares of the grey armored traitors. “I doubt you’ll find much use for him though. Trench diggers are limited in what they are capable of. But I digress. You have made it this far, and from what I can see, without butchering the crew of this fine vessel like wanton savages. I commend you, sincerely, on that. Most wouldn’t even have bothered. Mere obstacles to be slaughtered in order to reach the true target.”

  
  


“Silence, your prattle means nothing to me,” Hieron began before being cut off by the traitor.

  
  


“It will mean something if you value the lives of those you have captured, minus Hephaestion of course,” he sneered, a cruel smirk on his face.

  
  


Hieron’s expression darkened, his mind racing to find what he had missed, how his prisoners could be accessed without him or his _Tagma_ knowing. He had placed two tactical squads to guard the ever growing number of captives, more than enough to defeat any who would try to gainsay their mission, or at the very least buy enough time to vox a report stating their situation and a request for reinforcements. A quick check on the vitals of the two squads in particular showed him that they were alive and well, and they were still guarding their charges. He felt relief, which was soon followed by anxious confusion.

  
  


“You’re probably wondering as to how this may be, right? I haven’t ordered any of my men to kill them if that’s what you're thinking. What I actually did, which I think you’ll find most ingenious, is plant explosives into a certain number of crew and spread them out throughout this vessel, and throughout the fleet as a matter of fact,” he stated, the smug tone in his voice unmistakable.

  
  


While the Alpha Legion war lord was exceptionally pleased with himself, Hieron was the exact opposite, hearts stopping when he heard what the traitor had done, dread rearing its head, plans formulating and being discarded in the time it takes a mortal to blink by the hundreds. His attention was drawn to the despicable marine as he continued on.

  
  


“The explosives I used are quite perfect for what I had in mind. They pack enough power to practically incinerate the mewling wretch they’re implanted in, while containing enough shrapnel to kill hundreds of those around them. The average, I have found, is around 135, give or take a few if you count maiming as casualties. And from what I have gleaned from watching your chapter operate, you keep your prisoners all in one spot,” they said, tapping their helm with a finger. “One action on my part will have your precious prisoners slaughtered like grox in a slaughterhouse, and I doubt you would be satisfied with the death of me and my men as penance for such an act.”

  
  


Hieron had already begun to steele his heart for what he was about to do. As with the maddened crew, he was preparing to kill those he would offer clemency to in order to accomplish the overall objective, but his thoughts were once more cut off when the traitor spoke.

  
  


“There is, however, a way for you to, oh how do the slaves say it, have your cake and eat it too. You can have your prisoners, and you will be able to capture this entire fleet without any more shots being fired, but I require something of you.”

  
  


He couldn’t believe that he was entertaining this instead of ripping this smug traitor in two, but the chance that he could save all those that he captured without loss was not an opportunity to pass up, even from a traitor.

  
  


“What is it that you require?” he ground out.

  
  


“Excellent! But, to discuss this, a private vox channel is required.”

  
  


He acquiesced, and established a private link with the traitor.

  
  


“What is it that you want?” he spat once more, tired of this already.

  
  


“That’s no way to treat the person offering you everything you could want, is it? I shall forgive you this one time because you actually listen to reason instead of charging mindlessly like your cousins of other chapters. Now, onto what I need. I want Damophon gone, slaughtered like the wretch he is, and I want you to be the one to get rid of him. I currently cannot do so myself due to the support and massive bodyguard he keeps around him, larger in number than all of the marines loyal to me combined. I also don’t want to be implicated outright, as the retribution that would come after me would be immense. That unimaginative oaf has gained a substantial loyal following, and that following has much in the way of resources and means to get to me personally.”

  
  


“How would I accomplish this task, assuming I agree to it.”

  
  


“This is where I come in. I will contact you, discreetly of course, every so often and feed you information for supply depots, munition dumps, manufactoria centers and recruitment worlds. The obvious reason is that I want you to attack them, but in a manner that suggests that you are discovering these important areas yourself, without outside aid. Strike enough of them consistently, and you will draw him out, where he will undoubtedly look to humble you, if not outright destroy you. I will ensure that whenever you face him in combat, his resources and soldiers on hand will be so low as to practically handicap him, allowing you to easily strike him down.

  
  


“To add a bit more incentive, you will find equipment, war gear and relics of unimaginable value at these locations, and you will have your pick of the spoils once Damophon is defeated. Not to mention the credit of defeating such a powerful warlord. Just for good measure, if you renege on any part of our agreement, I am recording this conversation in full, and have contacts that can and will present this to the right people in your Imperium’s oh so vaunted Inquisition to have you and your brother chapters declared Excommunicate Traitoris and the full might of the Inquisition on your trail for as long as you live,” the traitor finished.

  
  


He hated this traitor, more so than anyone he had ever met, xenos or otherwise. He would see this marine meet the full extent of the Imperium’s justice, and all of his ilk purged from the galaxy for all time, any and all traces of their existence erased, their accomplishments rendered null and void. All that and more he was envisioning, but for now, he would have to cooperate with this scum until the warlord was dead and cold.

  
  


“I agree to your most generous offer. But first, disable the explosives,” he snarled, not even bothering to hide the venom in his voice.

  
  


“Most excellent. I knew you would see reason, my friend. The explosives are based upon range. Once I leave the system, they will be as inert as stone, and I’m sure that your apothecarium can locate the explosives and safely remove them once that happens. Now, I trust that you will find a suitable explanation for the stares you are garnering, and as to why we will be leaving with a small escort vessel. Just large enough to house a warp drive and my men, but not of any substantial value and or importance.”

  
  


“Hold, traitor. You are inviolet to my actions, but your men are not. I suggest you hurry, and pray that enough of your men survive this slaughter and reach your transport,” Hieron snarled, gripping his maul with bone breaking force.

  
  


“You do realise that I need them in order for this to work, yes?”

  
  


“Not all of them. You’re resourceful, you’ll make do.”

  
  


A sigh of pure frustration came through the vox channel, but with a grunt the traitor acquiesced.

  
  


“Fine, but spare as many of my own men as possible. The trench diggers you can slaughter with zeal.”

  
  


“I care not for your wishes, snake!” he snapped, cutting the connection before the traitor could respond.

  
  


“They seek to turn us against our Imperium, brothers! Slaughter them!” he roared, charging forwards into the mass of traitors. Behind him roared the First _Kentarchia_ as they charged after their Strategos, ferocity and zeal fueling their actions.

  
  


The silver mask of the traitor disappeared amidst the throngs of gunmetal gray and ocean blue as the traitors charged to meet them. The terminators, losing sight of their charge, moved to block his advance, but he would not be denied this most satisfactory slaughter.

  
  


“Tyrannus, flank them as I draw them in. Rip open their backs!”

  
  


“Yes, lord!” his second responded, moving to the left of the enemy terminators, striking down any traitor that barred his path.

  
  


Hieron swung his maul, striking against the thick plate of the enemy, combi-bolter spitting out a hail of bolt rounds. The bolts crashed against the shields of the terminator, harmless, but distracting all the same. The terminator to his front raised his volkite, aiming at his helm, but he swatted it out of his grip, the weapon flying into the mass of thrashing power armored bodies that surrounded them. He saw the counterstrike coming, and moved for it to deflect, but the power axe struck home, the axe head buried deep within the silvery-gray plating of his terminator armor, sparks flying as internal systems were destroyed and damaged. He pressed on, raising his maul high and bringing it down with thunderous speed and overwhelming force upon the terminator’s helm, nearly crumpling the piece of war gear then and there. The armor held, however, and an armored fist crashed against his own helm, damaging it. It still functioned, and he could still see, and struck the terminator once again, finally crushing their skull, blood and brain matter spraying from the cracks and gashes in the helm. 

  
  


He pushed over the armored corpse, which dented the deck when it landed, and turned his attention to the other terminator, who was keeping Tyrannus to his front, deducing what the First Kentarch was trying to do. He charged again, firing his combi-bolter, trying to get its attention. The enemy terminator’s shields flared, and its attention was drawn away from its quarry for just a split second, and that was all the time needed for Tyrannus to get behind the terminator and begin his bloody work. Lightning claws began to tear into the rear of the hulking traitor, who desperately tried to turn around and attack Tyrannus, but a power maul to the helm dazed the Alpha Legion terminator, sealing its fate. The suit fell over, the marine inside squirming around, trying to pick itself up, but the lighting claws of Tyrannus ended such efforts with one brutally fast strike, and they went still.

  
  


He looked up, seeing his _Exkoubitoi_ carving their way through the horde of traitors with ease, supported by breacher and tactical squads, ensuring that what had befallen the enemy terminators didn’t happen to them. There were pairs of traitors here and there that escaped the near one sided affair, but most fought to the last, being slaughtered by his men with no mercy, for none was given and was expected by either side. The First _Kentarchia_ had felt the rage, the indignation and fury behind their Strategos’ words, and had deemed these traitors to be the cause, and thus were deserving of brutal slaughter. Soon, it was over, the mortal crew that refused to surrender were slain in short order, following their masters in death, while the rest, much to Hieron’s approval, surrendered without a struggle.

  
  


The ship was secure, and looking at the auspex arrays and augers, it tracked a small craft leaving the landing bays, heading to one of the last remaining escort crafts not under his control.

  
  


“Lord Strategos! A craft has lef-,” a voice over the vox urgently said, but he had expected the report.

  
  


“Understood, Decarch Deinarkhos. Maintain containment procedures for the prisoners, and begin transfer to the _Iron Vigil’s_ holding facilities.”

  
  


“Y-Yes lord, your will be done.”

Satisfied, and making contact with their chief apothecary to notify them that they will have a large influx of subjects to look over, he turned to Tyrannus. The First Kentarch was looking at him with curiosity, as much as said emotion could be displayed on power armor, and was undoubtedly going to ask him questions regarding his “deal” with the Alpha Legionnaire, but it had to wait.

  
  


“Scour all decks for remaining hostiles. Secure them if possible. We will make for the orbital shipyards at Hyelegion and have our ships repaired, and if possible, put a request in for a replacement. The _Glorious Muse_ served the chapter for centuries, and her successor will be mighty.”

  
  


“Yes, Strategos. I will inform you when the ship is scoured in its entirety,” the Kentarch replied, marching off to one of his subordinates to relay orders.

  
  


He watched the augers and auspex, keeping an eye on the fleeing escort craft, hoping beyond reason that the traitor would keep his word. He would, regardless, but he would hate every action he took, as it weren’t of his own initiative that a renegade war lord would be slain, but by a rival, taking their place as soon as the war lord was deposed. He waited, waited for the reports of prisoners dying en masse, reports of explosions amid ship, but the reports, the explosions, the deaths never came, and as the ship disappeared from auspex and auger range, slipping into the warp, his twin hearts calmed. 

  
  


He had done it. More subjects of He Upon the Throne will return to his side, their lives and souls saved from the predations of the Arch Enemy, and the well being of the Imperium was assured, if only for another day.


End file.
